


Perennial

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Implied Relationships, Incest, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John enjoys the unexpectedly warm weather, Mycroft drives too fast, Lestrade gets demoted and Sherlock makes somewhat inaccurate analogies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perennial

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The seasons are changing. John is sure of it. He doesn’t recall the British summer happening in September when he was a child, but then neither does he recall the winters being quite so bitterly cold. Britain is usually protected by North Atlantic drift after all, though that, at present, appears to be changing. Colder winters, warmer summers and a distinct shift in the timeframe during which each occurs. He recalls, distantly, an exercise in junior school where they were required to draw four small pictures, to represent the seasons. He recalls drawing falling leaves and bare trees for Autumn, green grass and falling rain for Spring. Autumn was in October and Spring was in April, so perhaps the changing of the seasons isn’t so drastic at all. Perhaps, as a child, he just hadn’t noticed it as much. After all, it’s not such a leap to think that he missed the demarcation of the dates when his mind was filled with the promise of new school terms, tryouts for the house teams, the completely neglected nature of his prefect duties, or, spending his days flirting and laughing when he probably should have been studying instead.

“Watson, if you put half a mind to your studies, as you do to chasing after the girls from Cheltenham’s, you could actually manage medicine.”

John grins at the memory, even as he loosens his tie in the unusually warm weather. His maths teacher had been the one to put it to him directly. Stop chasing girls and do some actual studying, and you could make something of yourself. So he had. Of course it hadn’t hurt that, in the midst of those raging teenaged hormones, said maths teacher had struck John as really rather pretty. Not pretty in the conventional sense of course. Men never were. Tall, slender, _ginger_ of all things, but with delicate features, offset by thick-framed glasses and an air of smug superiority. John had fallen hard and that year had excelled in any and all mathematically related subjects. He’d studied excessively and almost wanked himself raw thinking of things like thin, freckled, shoulders or five o’clock shadow on an upper lip. Even now he’s still exceeding fond of the distinct differences between male and female anatomy, and he has, though he’ll never admit to it, a certain weakness for gingers.

Sherlock knows of course, because Sherlock always does. He probably knew at a glance that John had his maths teacher to thank for his becoming a doctor, that there was a psychiatry lecturer, on sabbatical from the States, who encouraged John’s interest in that specialisation. John has, what many have called, surgeon’s hands but that isn’t his specialisation. Sherlock knows that John laughs at free-association and states that it only ever tells you what you already know, and he also knows, that when John says that, he’s just quoting Jung anyway. Sherlock’s observations are all always perfectly rational, completely sensible, which make his actions all the more ludicrous at times.

“Pitt was blond, you dumb shits!”

John bites his lip to stop himself laughing out loud at the recollection. Sherlock, of course, entirely because it directs John’s attention away from him, absolutely loathes one particular actor that John fancies. The actor, for all his faults, has been in a few films that John’s actually liked. He’s tall, pale and ginger, with a nice enough smile, which is enough to spark Sherlock’s ire. Sherlock is brilliant and, in his own way, very beautiful. He’s also given to histrionics and petty jealousy in extremes. It’s enough to make John wonder at himself, that he puts up with all of it. Not that a slow stroll home from work is the exactly the most objective venue to pursue that thought. Not that he’s really considering it seriously anyway. Sherlock is Sherlock after all, and John long ago made his choice.

 

In the sunlight and warmth, John takes his time getting home. He stops off to buy a multi-pack of coke cans and then realises, once he’s bought them, that they might make the rest of the journey a little bit awkward to walk. A text to Mycroft seems like a good solution and John’s just set his bag and the cans on the ground, to fish out his phone, when a rather shockingly red convertible pulls up at the curb.

“Mycroft?”  
“John. Care for a lift?”

The elder Holmes brother is in an extremely upbeat mood, John observes. Shirt sleeves rolled up, jacket, tie and waistcoat discarded entirely. Even the sunglasses add a sense of reckless cheer to his appearance, along with the tantalising glimpse of chest hair at the opening of his shirt. Of course, this being Mycroft, there’s always something inconspicuously conspicuous for John to notice. This time it’s the large bunch of flowers between the seats.

“Present for Sherlock?” John can’t help enquiring.  
“My darling brother _is_ languishing in his sickroom after all.”

The roar of the engine and Mycroft’s music drowns out any further possibility of conversation so John just grips the seat and hangs on. Mycroft drives too fast and too recklessly, a trait that he shares with Lestrade. At least, John reflects, Lestrade usually has a police siren to warn other drivers to get out of the way, thought Mycroft’s music might work along similar lines. John vaguely recognises the lyrics, or at least two lines about not being able to make someone real.

“Slipknot. Vermillion. “ Mycroft answers the unspoken question anyway.  
“Right.”

Slipknot is, oddly, almost a typically Mycroft choice of music. Only ‘almost’ because John now knows that Mycroft tends to prefer classic metal or European bands for the most part. John doesn’t recognise the next track that follows but isn’t in the slightest surprised that it’s in German.

 

When they reach Baker Street, Mycroft at least has the graciousness to park around the corner, though John fishes a ‘doctor on call’ sign out of his bag, and drops it on the dashboard for good measure. The last thing they want is for Mycroft’s car to be clamped: it would be terribly inconsiderate of the local authorities. Coming round the corner, the first thing that John notices is that the curtains are mostly drawn, thought both sash windows have been thrown wide open.

“How Sherlock must be suffering in this weather.” Mycroft smirks.  
“While you’re out driving around in... what?”  
“An Alfa Romeo Spider.”  
“That’s a horrible name for a car.”  
“Only if you’re arachnophobia. You’re not interested in cars anyway.”  
“No, well...”  
“Which is why I’ll be taking Gregory out in it, instead of you, tomorrow evening.”  
“What about Sherlock?”  
“He’ll just complain that the wind does terrible things to his hair.”  
“Do you parents know that you’re wasting your money on fast cars and...”  
“Handsome men?” Mycroft laughs.  
“You can take me to a game at Lord’s instead.”  
“ _Darling_ , you know the season’s over.”  
“Next year, Mycroft. I’ll hold you to it.”  
“Better you than Gregory. Somerset lost this year.”

 

At the top of the stairs John hears an odd, vibrating, piping noise. Frowning, he turns to Mycroft, about to ask what on earth that could be about, when Mycroft boldly strides past.

“Sherlock-“  
“Fine, you can have that one. This drone can multitask.”

John takes in the scene before him. Sherlock is lying on the couch, with John’s laptop resting on his stomach. He has his feet in Lestrade’s lap and Lestrade appears to be occasionally feeding him chocolates from an open box, balanced on the arm of the couch.

“If you can tear yourself away from the lyrical songs of your rivals.” Mycroft hands the flowers over to Sherlock. “I thought you might like something to... pollinate.

Sherlock buries his nose in the flowers, in a poor attempt to hide a smile. This is, of course, all perfectly standard behaviour, John knows. He’s seen it a million times, though possibly without any sound effects before. As the seasons change, so do behaviours and circumstances. Sherlock complains of the heat and hides himself away as much as possible in the summer: Mycroft drives around in fast cars and makes himself visible to society. In the winter, Mycroft has to be practically bullied into going out, anywhere. Last winter, Sherlock had bought his brother a possum fur throw because Mycroft’s complaints about the cold had actually reached the verbalised stage. Mycroft had wrapped himself up in it and refrained from calling it tasteless until the Spring. Not that that particular present had been especially dire. John has seen Sherlock admire worse offenses to good taste after all, and the purple dyed possum fur throw that covers Sherlock’s bed in the winter can attest to that.

“And how is outside?” Lestrade enquires, as he extricates himself from the couch.  
“Too hot. We’re not going out. Come back, I’ll starve.”  
“John can feed you.”  
“You shan’t get any more eggs. And then we’ll all die.”  
Mycroft gracefully takes Lestrade’s place. “Here, vanilla truffle, that should keep your strength up for a while.”  
Sherlock tosses the flowers onto the table and leans forwards to take the chocolate from his brother.  
“No biting.” Mycroft admonishes.

It probably is just that little bit too hot to go out right now, and John could do with resting for a little while. They’ll go out for dinner, he supposes. Probably not al fresco because Sherlock will complain about the insects and Lestrade will smoke too much, thus destroying his appetite. Mycroft will probably have one or two places in mind and, eventually, they’ll all agree on something.

“How about the Southbank?” Lestrade hands John a glass of what looks suspiciously like iced tea.  
“Possibly.”  
“As my brother so succinctly says-“  
“Wait a minute, that stupid actor’s doing some stupid play at-“  
Lestrade laughs.  
“You’re demoted.” A grumble.  
“From what? You’re not my Super.”  
“From favoured drone to... something else.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively.

John considers it, or at least tries to. Here he sits, with a glass of rather pleasant iced tea, while his companions bicker about dining choices. Mycroft’s taken the laptop from Sherlock in exchange for the box of chocolates, and may actually be looking at restaurant options. Sherlock is grumbling at Lestrade, who’s giving just as good as he gets. Which leaves John to sip his drink thoughtfully.

“Why are we bees anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> Cheltenham’s is obviously Cheltenham Ladies’ College.  
> John and Sherlock appear to have watched “Amazing Grace” together.  
> Mycroft is driving an Alfa Romeo Spider 2.2 JTS.  
> Surrey defeated Somerset in the CB40 Final on 17th September, in the last match of the season this year.


End file.
